


Opia, rubatosis

by simplerplease



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Canon Compliant, M/M, Poor Life Choices, Unresolved Emotional Tension, ah btw i might add some locations that are not present in canon, bc im tired of vague spider mission mentions give them a real one, for the plot, i don’t think it’s going to be a happy one, i want to say hurt/comfort but being comforted only makes it worse, like lets rob the papal enclave, oscar wilde-esque yearning, sexual too
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:02:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28383681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplerplease/pseuds/simplerplease
Summary: “Just look at you,” Hisoka croons, trailing his thumb over the silken skin of Chrollo’s jaw. “You look so pretty like this. So utterly helpless,” he pauses, sharp golden eyes narrowing for a fraction of a second. “Our Danchou, on his knees,” his mellow voice almost breaks into a rasp somewhere in the middle. “All for me. Who would’ve thought?”“Hisoka, please,” Chrollo chuckles, looking up through his dark lashes. “How cananyonelove you and still be standing?”______Hisoka has one hand wrapped around a heart, and one around a throat.
Relationships: Hisoka/Kuroro Lucifer | Chrollo Lucifer
Comments: 22
Kudos: 25





	Opia, rubatosis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i uh..yea idk
> 
> this chapter’s title is from Edgar Allan Poe’s “Dream-Land”
> 
> set a couple of years before the yorknew city arc

we put out what is not extinguishable 

we light what is not lightable

and a distance remains between us

_Persons_ by Adonis — 

_Thirty-seven, fifty-four, niente, niente, thirty-two, twenty-one, niente, niente, niente._

Hisoka purses his lips, listening to the sounds of his footsteps against pink marbled floors — vulgar and insipid even to his liking, and Hisoka has never been the one to pay any particular attention to interior design. 

The colour is a dirty dusty pink, like a strawberry shake after two nights in a hot room, a shade so sour it’s almost salmon and milk. The veins crawling through the plates are rotten peach brown in baroque nature mortes, and the light coating the room is rancid yellow, like a stain of grease upon a white pillowcase that hasn’t been changed for a month. Creamy white walls of the mansion’s first floor reflect the colour in even more vividly atrocious way; paintings bathe in it, greeting the guests with distorted silhouettes and hues so mephitic even the most ignorant people, competently impassive towards art, can’t help but grimace at the sight. 

_Sixty-seven._

The chandeliers are crystal and ruby, sending thousands of cranberry blinks to float in Hisoka’s champagne flute upon the bubbles of his drink. He swirls the liquid indifferently and decides against touring around the second floor. He’s been here for twenty minutes now, a poor attempt of an elite gathering for Southern socialites he found a way to join out of interest, but so far there hasn’t been even one aura he’d consider worthy. He keeps sensing eyes on himself, and although it could’ve been flattering, none of these people spark joy, not even close to making him want to answer their lipstick-stained yellow-toothed grins and ravenous impudent stares. 

Hisoka doesn’t bother hiding his displeasure, eyelids hard and the line of his mouth bowed in a wry scowl. He puts the glass on the cocktail table he’s been leaning against and moves forward, nails digging into the flesh of his palms. 

_Fifty-two. Niente, twenty nine, sixty one. Niente, niente, niente._

He walks past young wrinkled faces and older ones, who’ve mastered the art of a perfect disguise. The hum of conversations, brilliantly elaborated and elegantly executed, accompany his saccharine-tragic parade until he’s at the hall, taking a turn around the stairs, exquisitely atrocious. Wooden, they would’ve been beautiful with their steps slightly wider than necessary, and that reddish shade of brown, almost terra-cotta warm, has the most bizarre patterns spilled lazily upon it; but the handrails are of dark gold, decorated with small cupids and grapevines; the banisters are of cast iron, and plain, ugly metal sticks are stabbed blatantly into the rich wood, and the revolting pink marbled floors and piss-coloured walls only intensify the mess. Hisoka steps into the hot summer air, curtly nodding at new guests who greet him loudly although it’s the first and most likely the last time he sees them. 

He turns to follow the lead of a paved path that snakes around the house into the bushes of white and pink oleander, the collar of his shirt already damp against his skin. The air is thick and humid, feels like you can scoop a handful and end up with cotton candy in your fingers; but the smell is sweet and rich, a carnival of flowers. 

Hisoka undoes three buttons of his shirt and runs a hand through his hair. The night is dark and cloudless, but with the taste of roses, lilies, delphiniums, jasmine, oleander and dozens of herbs and trees he can’t quite identify swirling around one another in a passionate waltz, it doesn’t feel serene. It’s intense and heavy on his tongue, and as he walks deeper inside the garden, the leaves of hazelnut and orange trees caress his shoulders and hair, as if to lure him with a tender embrace. 

After passing by a small hidden rotunda, Hisoka nears the pitch-black entrance of a green maze. It’s not that high, about two meters above the ground, but the darkness is absolute, and Hisoka accepts the invitation.

The walls are cypress trees, trimmed carefully to form nearly impenetrable walls. Oily, sharp, velvety smell drowns him in no time, and as he moves forward, the wind follows along. Hisoka lets a shiver run down his spine, skin damp and hot under the fabrics. The stars are cool and distant shards of diamonds, transparent and bright, winking at him with teasing, unreachable malice, and Hisoka chuckles, as if to say, _yes, I know,_ _ I could spend a lifetime chasing you and still fail to come even an inch closer.  _

He shifts his gaze to find the cool blue sickle of the moon, lucid and everlasting. Unlike the minxes she has for companions, her light is placid. Tender. Regardless of who stands before her, she is kind and compassionate. She rejects no one. 

Hisoka purses his lips, scowling at the sudden surge of anger toying with the bundle of his nerves, already exposed by the earlier fiasco. The phantom frame of the night’s light has no brightness her brother, the sun, possesses, yet just as infinite is her lovingkindness for those who reach out. How can she be so unconditional, even in the face of monsters these grounds are burdened by, how can she not shatter in all her dimensions. 

The oceans drown, the winds swirl until you suffocate. The earth cries out as they sing, and she...she remains superior in her distant solitude. She remains supreme. Tranquil, beautiful, nurturing. 

Hisoka grimaces, looking away, eyes heavy and stone-cold. He tames his rage quickly, before it’s too bright to make his presence known to any possible passer-by, but the bitter taste of his loosened composure still dances upon the curve of his mouth. Absent-mindedly, he picks a little shaggy twig of cypress and begins rubbing it between his fingers to keep his hands busy. He almost flinches when the sharp musky smell of crushed leaves slits the fragrant air. 

_Fifty-eight._ And then— _almost a hundred._

Hisoka’s breath hitches in his throat, whole body turning ablaze, as if it was soaked in kerosine and someone threw a burning match to his feet. He hears the humming silence of the night being interrupted by a breathy gasp and barely registers it’s his own. Feverish heat, completely different than the one embracing him in a gentle touch of July, bites into the tips of his ears, scalds the back of his neck and his cheeks, swallows his chest from within, growing out bleeding red camellias; his throat is tight, he can almost physically feel the sweet buds suffocating him with lust, turning him into a dog, a hellhound of desire. 

Hisoka’s nearly barking. 

He swallows, bouncing on his feet, and rushes forward, barely managing to keep his steps noiseless. The turns of the labyrinth guide him towards the shimmer of auras, the flow of his own blocked by zetsu completely, while the other two nen users are seemingly unbothered, letting it leak all over the place like sweet moans of violins. Two more steps, and Hisoka reaches the heart of the maze — a relatively small greenhouse, constructed in a rather old-fashioned style. 

The glasses are clear, tender and capricious peach and pear trees on full display behind the transparent walls. The intersection angles of white steel imposts are dark with the scurf of many showers, winds and droughts; the peculiar shape of the facade is elegant and laconic, the corners of an extended rectangle smoothly curved. From within, an odd shimmer of whitish blue behind the plants casts shadows onto the untrimmed grass, too weak to belong to a lamp, and as Hisoka lingers there to asses the situation, the shadows shift, following the mysterious source of light that seems to float in the air. 

Holding his breath, Hisoka moves towards the greenhouse’s entrance. He stops, hand on the metal arch of the door handle, when the air suddenly shifts into complete darkness. A fair echo of laughter follows, and a set of words Hisoka can’t quite distinguish; but the second voice clearly belongs to a child, while the muted silvery burst of mirth sounds adult enough. Hisoka opens the door and slips in. 

The air inside is extremely humid, the smell of warm soils and young leaves engulfing him like a living, breathing creature. His steps are silent and his excitement is poorly tamed by curiosity when the shimmer breaks the darkness again a couple of meters ahead of him, behind the chaos of botanical silhouettes. Hisoka’s all ears when he hears the voices again. 

“...hates them. She thinks they’re beasts.” 

“I think they’re beautiful.” 

The child sounds like they’re a ten years old girl, voice adenoidal and thin, while the replies come in a soft-spoken, quiet tone. People with voices like that have no trouble winning anyone over in no time, especially if they want to, and Hisoka starts repelling it before even seeing the owner, grinning, although already infuriated. 

“I can’t control them. They hurt people.” 

“Even if you don’t them want to?” 

The child hesitates to answer, and Hisoka smirks, almost unintentionally. It seems like the other voice smiles, too. 

“Tell me, have you ever heard the story of the great while whale?” 

“The white whale?” 

“Yes,” for a moment, the greater aura flares up, piercing the air with its mellow, lucid presence, nearly making Hisoka moan out loud. He holds his fingers against his mouth, eyelids heavy, eager to move closer. Behind the trees, he steals a glance oftwo silhouettes sharing a bench. “I just happen to have it on me today, would you like to take a look?” 

When Hisoka decides to steal a glance again, careful to avoid touching any of the plants he’s hiding behind, the bigger figure, presumably male, is holding what looks like a book. Their frame is smaller than Hisoka’s, delicate wrists peeking out of wide loose sleeves of their white linen shirt, tucked in dark slim-fitting pants, knees pointy. Hisoka still can’t see their face behind a mop of dark hair, but his eyes widen for a second when he finally sees the source of milky-blue light. 

Between himself and the pair there floats in the air a big fish-like creature. Its body is long, like a moray’s, but the extended sharp tale gradually widens after two thirds of the creature’s whole length, right around its ribs, providing a soft arch of a belly and a slight hump on its back. Instead of scales, there are wide asymmetrical skeleton-like plain rims, folded delicately one after another, starting as a collar past the creature’s head and finishing with a blunt tip of its tale, decorated with a sharp dagger of a fin. The rims are all crowned with spikes, shaped like a curved thorn of a rose, they follow the crest of the creature’s spine and stop where two greater fins arch threateningly on top of the hump, semi-transparent, held up by thick blue ligaments. The head wears a blunt beak and a pair of two button-like black eyes, mesmerizing in their blind stare; and the shimmer the whole place drowns in washes over the creature from within, like a visible, magnificent aura. 

Hisoka silently agrees with the stranger. Everything about it is beautiful. 

“Why is there a handprint on the cover? They should’ve put a whale if it’s a book about whales.” 

The laughter that follows the child’s blabber is fruity, and for a moment, Hisoka believes it’s sincere. And yet, everything about it screams danger.

The child laughs, too, voice quavering no more. 

“It’s a book about sailors,” the stranger corrects, offering it to the child. “They’re in love with a whale.” 

“In love?” the child accepts the book obediently, twirling it in small hands. The light disappears again, and when Hisoka looks up, no fish is in sight. Neither seem to care, though, keeping their conversation going. It’s probably because the child can’t control their nen yet. “With a whale?” 

“Yes,” Hisoka feels something triumphant in the vibration of the stranger’s voice and immediately aches to know the reason behind it. “Perhaps I could tell you more about it as we go back to your mother, she must be finished with the arrangements if she sent after us.” 

“Huh?”

The child starts looking around, but Hisoka has his gaze riveted on the pair of big dark eyes that land on him with an irritatingly unreadable smile. He would’ve grinned back, but for a long moment he stays frozen, unable to register the mistake he must’ve made to expose himself. He wouldn’t particularly care if the stranger intended to cause any problems for the interruption, but it doesn’t look like it. For some reasons, Hisoka feels like he’s being invited to play along. He finally regains his composure and curls his lips, unblinking eyes shining dangerously as he takes a step forward. 

“Good evening,” he says, startling the child. “You’re absolutely right, I’m here to invite you both to supper.” 

“Who are you?” the little one demands immediately, instinctively moving a little closer to the stranger’s side. 

“Fiamma,” they chuckle irresistibly, “mind your manners.” 

There’s a honeyed order to this murmured sound, someway encouraging, someway scolding, but oh so tender. Fiamma’s chubby cheeks darken, eyes glaring at Hisoka with distrust. 

“But Mister Iblis—“ 

“It’s improper for a Lady to be rude for no reason,” the man mutters fake-pompously, his tone a secret joke only for two of them to understand. Hisoka feels like he’s being made fun of; and he’s fascinated, although his blood is boiling like lava. 

Fiamma’s miniature hands curl into tiny fists, her little mouth in a pout, but her shoulders relax when a hand wraps around them, guiding her up. Her long locks of thick curls bounce mirthfully as she stands up, chest a little puffed and brilliant eyes still watching Hisoka unblinkingly below the knitted eyebrows. Kids feel everything, don’t they, possessing this unexplainable ability to read one’s intentions no matter how immaculate the presence is. Which says a lot about the man’s — Iblis’ nature, quite alarming if you ask Hisoka, but clearly meaning no harm. At least right now. 

With his small slender hand still on the girl’s shoulder and almost heart-wrenchingly big dark eyes fixed upon Hisoka’s, Iblis stands up, too. He’s relatively short, the unruly mop of thick soft-looking dark hair probably reaching the cut of Hisoka’s jaw, and his build is muscled yet thin and delicate, all narrow shoulders and waist, and thin legs clad in black leather, and a ridiculously pretty face serving as a maraschino cherry for Hisoka’s feral excitement. He’s only managing to keep himself on a leash because the man, this oddly fragile-looking source of immense power, sparks his curiosity and teases his reflections like the wind dancing upon incandescent coals. 

“May we have your name?” Iblis asks, something akin to transparent and diluted tease in his smooth voice, the tilt of his head boyishly-coquettish as the three of them start walking towards the exit. Hisoka grins wickedly, but atop the burning desire there settles a trace of irritation; the man doesn’t even consider him dangerous, the flare of air around him calm and rather nonchalant.

“Hisoka,” he answers, registering the deeper curve of Fiamma’s frown. 

“Mother has never told me about you,” she says, clinging to Iblis’ side. His face doesn’t change, wide eyes on the path ahead of them; Hisoka needs to be seen. 

“And I only met her two hours ago, but look at us, we get along pretty well, don’t you think so?” Iblis reminds her politely, guiding them towards the cypress labyrinth. 

“But you were nice! And you introduced yourself,” the girl rambles fiercely, her cheeks burning bright like Hisoka’s under all those layers of his makeup. 

“I introduced myself, too,” he pouts where Iblis chuckles. 

“And I bet Hisoka’s very nice and polite as well, isn’t he?” he says, as if praising a dog. 

_ Brat .  _

Fiamma huffs, somewhat defeatedly. 

“He was just scared of my fish.” 

A vision of the pale creature bathing in moonlight flashes through Hisoka’s head, its cool solemn magnificence almost enough to make him shiver, even amidst the heat of the summernight air. 

“Why would I? It’s beautiful,” Hisoka croons, face almost splitting in two. “Unlike that great white whale Mister Iblis seems to be so fond of.” 

Fiamma blinks, intrigued. Hisoka pointedly avoids looking at the man. 

“Yes, it is actually believed to be hideous, absolutely horrific, and I personally believe it was so-o nasty of Mister Iblis to make you even consider reading that book, Fiamma.” 

A quiet surprised gasp makes Hisoka jerk his head up, and when does, the man is laughing heartily, the unhidden, sincere trill of the soundeasy like breathing, and Hisoka hates that it feels like a small victory — to see him genuinely amused, no trace of his previous saccharine pretense and tease on this face, clear even as it’s still drowning in shadows. He hates it, and obviously, he hates that he’s not even being taken into consideration, not even after dropping the shield of his Zetsu to diffuse the bloodlust-stained odour of his aura all around them; but most of all, he hates being so...startled at someone smiling at him like that. No one ever does. Not at Hisoka. 

“I have to take it back, Fiamma,” Iblis shakes his head, cocking it to the side. “Hisoka is neither nice nor polite.”

He wants to slit his pretty fucking throat. 

“Admit it, you were just being posey, there’s no way anyone genuinely likes that book,” Hisoka claims instead, finding his words oddly unfeigned, too, undoubtedly against his own will. It’s like the man, having turned the nature of their conversation from pretentious, either of them hiding their faces under a thick layer of honey, to artlessly easy, this man still manages to stay dominating in his clear acknowledgement of Hisoka’s motives that he  reeks of. Hisoka feels like he’s watching a performance of castling without it being one. 

Wearing the same disbelieving smile, he closes his eyes for a second, shaking his head lightly, long thick lashes nearly kissing the top of his cheeks. 

“Yes, because I was so eager to impress a nine year old,” he drawls, glancing down at Fiamma, who doesn’t really understand what’s going on, but still readily smiles back at him. “Besides, it really used to be one of my favourites when I was a kid,” he echoes, pouting more to himself than to anyone else, a serene sort of reminiscent longing in the press of his lips. 

Hisoka snorts. 

“Please accept my sincere condolences.” 

“Yeah, and what about you? What was your favourite?” he demands with a kind of childish dare, keeping up their playful banter for real this time, and Hisoka is too aware of that, for his intentions nearly begin to dissolve in the sound of Iblis’ voice, too perplexed with this approach.

“I don’t know. Certainly not that. “The Little Prince”, perhaps,” he blurts out, frowning with irritation, not really aware of what he’s saying, too focused on forcing himself to stop his excitement from slipping away. He realizes that his mistake has been acknowledged when the silence lasts a little longer than a heartbeat, and when Hisoka glances at the man, catching the look in his eyes before he turns away, he meets nothing but bright, vivid curiosity and  _sorrow_ , the smallest specks of golden lights reflecting the already approaching house; they’re bathing in dark irises like stars above them against the endless aubergine-black of the sky, and this shift in his demeanor Hisoka can’t quite place; it is eating him from the inside to fail to. 

“Oh, I’ve read this one! It’s about a boy and a rose, yes?” Fiamma’s question is like a nightingale’s sweet trill, innocent and lovely, even in the darkest night. 

“And a fox,” Iblis corrects as they finally step into the light, and there it is — a hue of reluctant melancholy upon the way dim lights off the kerosene lanterns caress the surprisingly soft features of his face, even in profile; the apathy of periwinkle-purple sfumato in the shadows flowing off his round cheeks and scarfed forehead, under the blunt tip of his long nose and the curve of his plump lips, and nestled in the deep caves of those doe eyes beneath the gentle bow of his brows. When he opens his mouth to speak, the colour shifts obligingly, licking his skin like it’s satin and dark wild hair like it’s brazen. “About a boy and a fox.” 

Hisoka’s face twitches and falls into a grimace of whirly anger and naked rage, the ultimate source of heat now clasped between his ribs and not seated somewhere in the pit of his stomach. Who the fuck  _is_ this man, to let something almost compassionate colour the ring of his irises, when Hisoka radiates nothing but bloodlust and chaos, nothing but eager willingness to destroy him. People are all different, for sure, but Hisoka was not prepared to face anything like that, and he resents it, chanting to himself, _no, it’s a trick, just another trick to talk the way out of a fight_ , because none of the people are like  that anymore, if there has ever been any.

Hisoka’s head goes absolutely numb when the man turns to look at him again, eyes bigger than two moons behind grey cotton clouds and just as bright in their haze. They’re smooth and transparent like glass, and Hisoka can’t even guess the colour as right now one of them is almost golden, a mirror for the lantern lights, while the other appears to be pitch-black, still bathing in shadows. He looks young though, Hisoka notices, younger that he expected, barely twenty, pretty face all eyes and soft, boyish lines, even though it’s burdened by a look of inexplicable yearning, even with dark circles of exhaustion upon clear skin. He looks at him the way a child looks at a stray dog they want to pet, the least bit hesitant to reach out with small rosy hands, and Hisoka’s nails rip the skin of of his palms as he clenches his hands into fists. Although Hisoka aches to know more, he’s not used to people being like that around him; he’s never a subject of interest. He’s not used to being watched with admiration instead of terror, he decides soon enough that he hates being studied. 

“Fiamma,” Iblis says quietly, patting her shoulder, though never breaking eye contact with Hisoka. “Go find your mother, I’ll join you in a minute.” 

“Will you sit with me? I’ll ask her to seat you with me instead of Antonella, she’s a dummy,” she blabbers, nodding at herself and her little plan, and in a second she flees in a swirl of curly hair and emerald green fabrics of her dress. 

Hisoka’s chest, his shoulders, the back of his neck, the tip of his nose and ears — all warmth and tingle, and he  _loathes_ this gentle yet morbid kindling of a burn, loathes the core of it, because it’s not supposed to be like that;  _he_ is not supposed to be like that. It’s been too long since he’s felt its soft breath upon the flesh of his heart, and under any circumstances, he hasn’t been planning to let it suck him into the void he once grew way too familiar with, for his skin is still scarred, and his scars are still pink, refusing to turn white. 

But before he can do anything about it, two figures clad in black almost materialize from nowhere to stand on both sides of Hisoka’s  _insufferable_ companion — one of them tall, lanky, long hair in a low ponytail behind his back, small mouth shut and eyelids heavy, piercing stone-cold stare appraising, and the other one, almost ridiculously short in compare with Hisoka, unceremoniously steps between him and Iblis, glaring at Hisoka with narrowed light brown eyes — almost explosively golden, almost like the rage of sun minutes before dusk. Skin almost transparently pale and shaggy hair darker than the scowl upon thin lips — the sight is, Hisoka excitedly admits to himself, is rather alarming, even though the stranger stands lower than Hisoka’s chest. 

It must be the aura, another immensely strong one, almost like Iblis’, and the taller stranger’s, too, Hisoka notices. 

_Are they his watchdogs or something?_

“You done here, Danchou?” the taller one asks, and although the voice sounds distant and permanently tired, there also lies a threat somewhere in the bottom of its tone. 

And although its owner’s eyes still watch Hisoka closely and the flames of orange gold are so intense Hisoka almost feels their tongues on his body, he still can’t help but stay utterly transfixed by abyssal orbs of metal and liquid light. 

“Yes,” Iblis’ voice is hesitant and cool, and a little bit vague, lost somewhere only he has a privilege to travel to. “Fei,” he says a little softer then, blinking to look down at the fiery one. 

_Hisoka wants his eyes back on him._

“Us go now?” the reply lacks for question, voice withered and rough, almost a hiss.  _Fei_ sounded oddly like an order, now Hisoka understands, like a tug of a leash, and it should be more surprising than it is, given the circumstances. 

“Yeah,” Iblis says again, and Hisoka can’t, for the life of him, understand the reason behind reluctance that stains the word faintly. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Hisoka,” he nearly rasps, obviously struggling to keep himself connected to the reality, suddenly detached and miles, miles away. Hisoka’s familiar with this look, no matter who’s face it’s worn upon, and all he wants to do is to beat it out of the man, make him feel his claws wrapped around his neck, bring him back to Earth, to this ground, to  _him_. 

“The pleasure’s all mine,” he purrs back, chest heavy, but lips stretched in an alligator smile. He’s in no position to bark right now, he’s not even sure he can handle the man on his own, let alone with his watchdogs, no matter how overwhelming his bloodlust is. Or rather, was. 

The little boss doesn’t look back once when the three of them leave, his smaller companion’s spiteful glare still a bigger promise than anything else. And Hisoka’s aching, but his fuel is no more excitement but rage, ugly and agonizing, something he wants to rip out of his body; for it doesn’t belong there, his kingdom of fever and desire. It makes him weak. 

And weak he is, standing there, smitten and dumbstruck, staring into the abandoned abyss of the night before him. Behind the mansion’s thick walls, there starts to play an old record of the long deceased opera singer. Another wave of flower blossom wind kisses his body softly, and only when a shiver he didn’t expect runs down his spine, Hisoka realizes how sweaty he actually is. Sweaty and...tired. Exhausted. 

He catches a glimpse of the moon in one of the dark windows of the house’s second floor. When he blinks, it’s no longer there, and dirty cotton clouds race across the sky like horses. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this homoerotic idiot writing extravaganza is fueled by red bull and alpine milk chocolate and induced by coquettish self hatred and unstoppable escapism; oh and i made a [hisokuro playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/rzykc2c51hf2po0l5d2sb3umr/playlist/0hN4N5Rw6OYOSte9fEWilZ?si=Yf4HDCpeQSmHrTBJpOCKOA) too (it’s sad)

**Author's Note:**

> opia — n. the ambiguous intensity of looking someone in the eye, which can feel simultaneously invasive and vulnerable
> 
> rubatosis— n. the unsettling awareness of one's own heartbeat


End file.
